Crooked Grin

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I don’t know why

Aristotle threw the poets

Out of the Symposium

 

I’ve never been good w/philanthropy

 

But this I know:

There will be time for all that later

Or their won’t

 

I mean what does it matter

If they level the playing field

But move the goalposts?

 

A horse

Of a different color

Can open all the cans of corn

It wants but if it can’t hit the breaking ball

Then it’s the glue factory for sure

 

So abide your idols

They were once babies, too,

Noses and nether regions

In need of wiping as much

As the next baby

 

But pity their crooked grins

The world ain’t as flat

As it once was or

As they fear it is—-

Jump on it, Brian

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What’s written down
In the book of my blood?
Stunted, muted stories
Alive like a twitch
At an approaching hand
Or a sigh released when a thirst is slaked.
Unmemorable narratives.
Manifest depressions.
Sad stories collapsing like a coal mine
Or kissing the cheek like a
Grandma’s leathery hands
Halved, chopped up, divided away.

I’m no good with scripture
And verse and what begins
With the word ends with the tongue
Lolling in silence.

(Maybe that’s why I get lost
In books afraid to get out
Afraid of their ending?
That someone will figure it out?
50 years of my life
Thinking…thinking!)

In a twisted way to
Make the world work –

Exit Wound

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Grease the window.

I need to slip out

And a catch a train

In my butterfly net.

Yet where was I

When you weren’t here?

There in the kitchen, laughing

And talking with friends

Our murmuring wafting

Through the house

Like delicious, aromatic

Ethnic cooking on the anniversary

Of a national tragedy.

Then I remembered your list.

Innumerable, Whitmanesque.

And realized I was really late for that train.

draft

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there are plenty of fine things in the

world. the gilt

at the rusting edges of an unwound

clock. and more

the rare breed

of potato chip

metastasizing into

a cult, legion

or treatment of

something

once happening

between the

ears of

us: big old donkey ears.

Us: yoked, cracked, sensitive to the sound of the

Whip tattooing our hides with gold.